A Sandstorm
by The Sun In The East
Summary: Modern AU fluff; Willas returns home from Afghanistan, and Sansa is waiting for him, just as he needs her to be. A Oneshot.


**A Sandstorm**

Sansa had been at the airport for three hours, a silly sort of worry bubbling in her chest as the board displayed the same thing it had said since she'd first arrived.

_Flight 5934 – Delayed_

She'd been to the desk three times to ask when it would arrive, and the answer had been later and later each time—weather, they said, sandstorms—lots of planes back from the military bases were delayed this time of year, the desert was always kicking itself up into a tizzy and ruining all their perfect schedules.

Still, Sansa worried. She'd been worrying for eight months straight, while Willas had been gone. It was becoming intrinsic to her nature to worry. Willas, the man who had kissed her scars and so patiently put her pieces back together after Joffrey had had his way, did not belong in some desert war a world away—but away he had gone, finally caving under the pressure from his father, off on a plane to Afghanistan to fight alongside and against men who's shoulders were easily twice as broad as his.

She'd waited long enough. She wanted him back.

When his superior had called her, Sansa had sobbed on the phone while he'd tried to explain what had happened. Sansa barely understood it—explosions, shrapnel, rockets, his leg-but what she did understand was that Willas was hurt. When he was strong enough, days later, he'd called her, but only for a few minutes. He'd refused to give her the details of his injuries, and his voice had been too soft and too dry and had this awful trembling too it, edged with so much pain that she almost felt it herself. A week later, she'd been informed that Willas was stable enough to take a plane back to the States for further treatment, but that it would be a long road. And now she was waiting alone in the airport, her hands trembling in her lap where she'd tried to still them.

And then, the board changed.

_Flight 5934 – 6:30 PM_

Sansa's heart thudded in her chest, sick with anticipation. That was in half an hour. Eight months, and in half an hour, he'd be in her arms.

She spent that next half hour struggling to steel herself. She would not cry when she saw him. No matter what. It was her turn to be strong, and she was not going to worry him when he needed her. He'd spent years coaxing her into happiness, teaching her to smile again, she would not have him see that fall to waste.

But no matter how she tried, she was not prepared when that plane finally landed. Men and women flocked out of its belly, into the airport, meeting loved ones, smiling, laughing, and Sansa just sat in the terminal, still as stone, waiting while the world swarmed around her, an incomprehensible ocean that could not touch the island of her hammering heart.

She saw him before he saw her. Her chest tightened as a flight attendant pushed the wheelchair in which he sat into the terminal. Sansa didn't even take the time to get a good look at him before getting to her feet, his name shrill upon her lips, and when she came to stand beside the chair he said no words, but simply wrapped his arms around her midsection and buried his face in her torso. "Sansa," he breathed, as she wrapped one arm around his shoulders and ran her other hand through his brown curls.

True to the promises she'd made herself, Sansa did not cry, but she trembled as he clung to her, mouthing a silent "thank you" to the flight attendant to indicate that she would take him from there.

"Welcome home, love," she whispered, kneeling down beside his chair so they were closer to eye level. She took his face into her hands, feeling the harsh stubble beneath her palms, taking in the bags under his eyes and his darker, sun-tanned skin and then kissing him, so softly, as if too much pressure would break him then and there.

She could feel his smile as she touched her lips to his. The feel of it made all the difference, and when she broke from him she found that she was smiling, too.

"Sansa," he said her name, again, she watched his eyes as he took her in, just as she had him.

"Hi," Sansa squeaked, with a soft laugh, unsure what else she could possibly say.

Willas returned her laugh, and drew her into his arms again—this time, her head was tucked under his. "Hi," he replied, giving her a gentle squeeze. "I'm... I'm back, Sansa. Did you know they clapped for me on the plane?"

"Did they?" she asked, looking up at him. "Well, you certainly deserve it."

"Can we go home?"

Sansa drew away from him and kissed him, one more time, standing up and going to stand behind his chair, eager to take him home where he would finally be _safe. _"Yes, please. Let's go home."


End file.
